


Memoriae

by unamusementpark



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 12:27:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamusementpark/pseuds/unamusementpark
Summary: When Gamzee doesn't want to remember, he paints.





	Memoriae

**Author's Note:**

> IMS O SORRY ITS SO SHITTY

Gamzee hated to remember. He hated the too-familiar feeling of the bruises on his skin, the dodged questions and feigned laughter, the guilt and confusion that sometimes still lingered when he stayed in one spot or thought too much. He hated the way his chest tightened whenever he saw that stupid symbol, something that _no one_ was afraid of but him, something that was as simple as a constellation yet more complicated than he could wrap his mind around.

So, when he remembered, he painted. It was calmed him when his best friend wasn't there and his hands were shaking, comforting him with colors that could be as soft or as earth-shaking as he wanted. He had complete freedom over what was seen and how it was seen, whether it would be the quiet serenity of a moonlit night or the warm glow of love. It was nothing like taking control of his own life, where there were variables and consequences.

The night he heard a knock at the door and was sure _he_ was back, he painted the green leather gardening gloves that Karkat loved so much. He could smell the earth and green plant scent, so rich it was almost too much for him to bear. The sun beat down upon him as he leaned against the flimsy wooden wall of the gardening shed, giving his sore hands a break from pulling weeds. Karkat, thanks to his gloves and countless hours spent working here, didn't seem as though he'd run out of steam for hours. When it grew too hot, he sighed and called to Gamzee, finally getting up from his spot in the soil. He carried the gloves inside and set them on the counter, dirt-covered as they were. The sunbeams shined through the window, illuminating the gloves in a golden light that made the murky green so much more than that. Gamzee stared at it, taking a mental picture that hadn't left.

And now that moment was on the canvas- the pleased exhaustion that came from tending a garden too large for its backyard; that perfectly green smell that would always remind Gamzee of Karkat; the small smile that had played on Karkat's lips all day, no matter how hard he tried to hide it from him.

The day after he had a fever and he felt just like he did days after a beating- weak and wracked with the faint echoes of pain that wouldn't leave him alone, he painted a pan of biscuits scorched beyond all recognition. He could hear the frantic beeping of the smoke alarms, almost masking Karkat's equally frantic cursing as he tried to silence them. He tasted the sharp taste of smoke that silenced any sort of appetite anyone had worked up. He felt his stomach aching from laughing so hard as a firetruck pulled up, and Karkat, mortified, had to explain what had happened. Gamzee had been sent inside to clean the pan, although it was far beyond hope. He threw it away and put a reminder in his phone to get them a new one. They had sat on the couch, candle burning to try and get rid of the smell, watching reruns of Grey's Anatomy and eating chinese takeout for the rest of the night.

The panicked was gone, chased away by warm memories- the tears in Gamzee's eyes from sheer laughter; the way Karkat scrunched his face up in an attempt to not laugh in return ( _This is serious, goddammit_ ); the knowledge that, even when Gamzee laughed at the stupid things he did, Karkat would still huddle together on the couch with him all night.

The morning when Gamzee woke up, gasping for breath after a nightmare that had held him in its claws all night, he painted Karkat's old t-shirt that had once been for some sort of classic rock band. He felt the softness of the fabric against his curled fist. He could smell the earthy smell that never left Karkat as he leaned his cheek against the top of his head, closing his eyes and trying to take deep breaths. He couldn't remember what had happened anymore, but he could hear the front door creaking when he had first arrived at Karkat's, letting himself in. He had long since been given a key, after all. He didn't see the screen of the TV in front of him as he sat, but he did see his best friend's steel grey eyes, full of concern, meet his own. He heard him softly ask what was wrong (which really was amazing, because when Karkat grew quiet, you knew he was concerned), felt himself shake his head, and felt him sit down next to Gamzee without another word.

The loneliness dissipated now just as it had then- the silent understanding; the chattering of the TV in the background; the eventual sleep that had taken him, with Karkat soon to follow.

The night Gamzee felt himself disconnecting, detaching from reality and himself, he painted the old stereo that only played music when it was plugged into the wall and iPod _just right_ , and even then, the sound of the music faded out at random intervals; just when you started to head over and see what was wrong, it would start playing again. He tasted the strange foreign candies he had brought over to try with Karkat. Some were delicious, most were disgusting, but it was too much fun watching each other's reactions to the latter kind to stop eating them. He heard a song come on that made Karkat jump up and try to change it, but Gamzee had stopped him. He heard himself begging that he taught him how to dance, especially because it was an important life skill or whatever. He felt a rush of joy when he finally said yes, replaying the song so he could teach him properly. Karkat stood on his shoes and buried his bright red face in his sweatshirt, trying to pretend that he hadn't taken dance lessons in sixth grade that had stuck with him to now. He felt his own face hurting from smiling so much, and the smile somehow growing wider when Karkat permitted one more song.

The isolation was in his head, but it wasn't real, unlike the memory- a nameless Spanish singer warbling a truly terrible tune; Karkat growing so red even his neck was warm to the touch; an embarrassment turned into a shared moment.

Gamzee hated to remember. It made his teeth chatter and his hands to shake, chills and waves of heat running alternately through him. His head spun, he felt ill, his breathing hitched. It was the worst kind of feeling, knowing he was terrified of something that would never come and yet he doublechecked the house every morning and night.

But sometimes, when he remembered the times where he felt at peace with the world, he figured it might not be so bad to remember.


End file.
